


A Thousand Monday Mornings

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Obviously), All the issues that come with being post war, Angst, Bullying, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry and Draco get trapped in a time loop together, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild references to mental illness/depression, Not Epilogue Compliant, On Hiatus, Slow Build, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So far, Harry Potter's Eight Year at Hogwarts has been incredibly uneventful. Exams are fast approaching and Hogwarts is finally as normal as a wizarding school can be. Harry Potter finds himself itching for trouble, but when a strange incident leaves Harry trapped in a twenty-four hour time loop, the only thing Harry knows for certain is that Draco Malfoy is definitely involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Days Before

**Author's Note:**

> Updates for this should be fairly fast since I'm on summer break from University and I have nothing else to do. I don't have a beta so sorry for any mistakes.

**Friday, 13th March 1998**

**Three Days Before**

 

March arrived at Hogwarts, bringing with it a milder air, spattered with rain, coaxing nature out of the wilderness of winter. The whomping willow started to sprout leaves again, the grounds were again occupied by creatures and the skies with birds, and Care of Magical Creatures lessons were no longer spent shivering and complaining, or badly casting warming spells on one another in some desperate attempt to stave off the cold. 

Alongside the weather, March also brought with it a mild sense of panic. Exams felt rather far away on the subsequent weeks from Christmas, but now, as the third month of the year rolled around, it was impossible to avoid. The notice board in the Gryffindor Common Room was playing host to a countdown; _11 weeks and two days_ _until exams_ , and everyone in fifth and seventh year shot it contemptuous looks whenever they passed it, as if it was to blame for their impending fate. 

In some odd juxtaposition to what had happened less than a year ago, Hogwarts was as normal and peaceful as it had ever been. It was the first year in a long time that nothing out of the ordinary had happened at Hogwarts, and rather than calm the students, it seemed to unnerve them somewhat. It seemed as if everyone was waiting for the catastrophe, and sometimes looked at Harry accusingly, as if he was to blame for taking too long in creating drama. Outside of Hogwarts, the wizarding world was still in disarray; Aurors were working relentlessly to bring down the remaining Death Eaters, and everyone else was trying to recover from the repercussions of the war. But Hogwarts was, for the most part, just like a normal school. 

“They wrote another article about you in the Prophet, Harry,” Hermione informed him across breakfast, handing him the folded up copy of the paper. 

“You’d think they’d have ran out of things to say by now,” Harry sighed; they were mentioning him almost every week lately. He didn’t bother opening the paper; instead, he carelessly threw it to one side. 

“They were responding to a few requests that they write you a biography, or that you write your autobiography,” Hermione said, turning her attention to her bowl of cereal and her Arithmancy book that she had propped open. Harry swore he saw a flicker of amusement on her face as she spoke, and he couldn’t help but snort a laugh too.

“That’s ridiculous,” Ron butted in as he sat down next to Harry, only just catching the tail end of the conversation, “everybody in the wizarding world knows Harry’s life story, it’s hardly like he’s unknown! The Prophet reported everything that happened to him.” 

Harry felt himself flush a little at the idea of everyone knowing the details of his life, but Ron was right; it was hardly a secret what had transpired in Harry’s life so far. Everyone knew about Voldemort, his parents, and his scar, and that he had spent the next 11 years in the muggle world. Not many of them knew the details of Privet Drive, but Harry wasn’t in a rush to tell them all. And as for every year he had spent at Hogwarts, he was sure that every student in the school would have been able to recount the details themselves. It was hardly like any biography - self-written or not - would be able to shed anymore light onto the stories. 

“Well, I’m sure if Harry decides not to write his own autobiography-” 

“I’m not going to write my own autobiography, Hermione.”

“Then, if the Prophet does it for him, I’m sure they’ll create some new dramatic scoop to gain everyone’s attention.” She turned the page of her book, not even looking up as she spoke.

Harry shuddered at the idea of the Prophet writing any kind of biography on him, like Rita Skeeter had done with Dumbledore. It would be disastrous, and the last thing he needed was more false information spread around about him. As if Harry didn’t merit enough stares and gossip, he was sure that the addition of some clearly false rumour would make everything worse. Not to mention, everyone knew all the details of his adventurous feats, so he was sure the author would have to resort to some sexual or romantic scandal and he flushed again at the thought.

“I’m not going to let them write a biography about me,” he said rather harshly, as if that would clear up the matter completely.

“I don’t blame you, mate,” Ron laughed at the idea, shovelling cereal into his mouth. “What else did I miss?”

“Er - they’re holding another friendly match between Gryffindor and Slytherin on Sunday,” Harry remembered. The Slytherin Captain had cornered him during dinner the previous night, and the announcement had been made during breakfast. 

Friendly matches were commonplace in Hogwarts now; after the war, the school had decided that inter-house rivalry ought to be squashed, and that Hogwarts ought to enter a new age of inter-house cooperation. One of the methods of achieving this had been what the school now called ‘friendly matches’. They bore no influence on the House Cup, and entailed a lighthearted, non-competitive Quidditch match during the weekend. At least that was the definition. 

Usually, especially during the Gryffindor-Slytherin games, the phrase ‘non-competitive’ was really rather laughable. Occasionally, though, they switched players between teams - Slytherin Keeper and Gryffindor Keeper would switch with one another, along with a Chaser from each team or so on - in order to stop the rivalry to run too deep, and in order to encourage some kind of cooperation and teamwork between members of different houses. They ran almost every weekend, or at least twice a month, and although all houses played friendly matches, there were more Gryffindor-Slytherin games than any other houses. 

It was by far the most successful method of inter-house cooperation; when they mixed their teams, Harry almost forgot that he was supposed to hate Slytherins, especially when one of the Slytherin Chasers scored a goal for his team. The school’s other methods included encouraging students to partner up with someone from a different house when classes required pair work - although the N.E.W.T.s students didn’t come across this tactic very often; the teachers were more preoccupied with ensuring they pass their class - and switching up Prefect rounds so that Prefects partnered up with different houses.

It seemed to work, more or less; it was common to see students from different houses studying together, or crossing the Great Hall to pass messages to friends on other tables, and more and more parties after matches were ‘all houses welcome’. It had been particularly successful with every house relationship other than the Gryffindor-Slytherin one; many of the younger students had let go of the rivalry, but those in the oldest few years were finding it difficult. 

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to focus on our exams when there’s so many Quidditch matches going on,” Hermione said with a sigh, looking up from her book. 

“So, you’re not coming?” Harry asked, only the lightest hint of teasing in his tone. If Hermione really felt as scornful towards the matches as she acted, she wouldn’t have turned up to every match to date.

“I -” She blinked and an air of defensiveness came over her. “I never said that. Of course I’ll be there.” 

“Right.” Harry smirked and sipped his drink.

“Anything else?” Ron took a bite of his sausage, chewing with his mouth open. Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t comment. 

“Yes,” Hermione handed him a package. “You missed the post. It’s from your mum, I think.” 

“Thanks,” Ron opened his package. It contained a few baked goods and a new set of quills - Ron had managed to snap all but one of his current set. After a moment of inspecting them, Ron looked up with an amused smirk. “Did Malfoy get any more Howlers?” 

Alongside friendly Quidditch matches, Malfoy’s post was commonplace at Hogwarts too now. He had been let back into Hogwarts on instruction of the Ministry during his trial, in order to force some sort of redemption into him for his crime. They had decided he was too young to be sentenced to Azkaban, but had threatened that if he placed so much of a toe out of line, they wouldn’t hesitate this time. Nevertheless, many of the students, parents and readers of the Daily Prophet weren’t happy with the result, or the idea of a Death Eater (whose parents also happened to be Death Eaters, and in Azkaban too) attending the school, and so every week, Malfoy would receive an influx of hate mail. Some were standard letters and so Malfoy had taken to tearing them up without reading them now, but sometimes he received a jinxed package or a telltale red envelope. 

Prefects had begun to check every package bigger than a letter that Malfoy received, and Malfoy had begun to run out of the Great Hall whenever he received a Howler, so he could avoid the humiliation that he had suffered on their first morning back. Sometimes he wasn’t quick enough, and the Howler opened itself in the doorway, or in the Entrance Hall, close enough so everyone could still hear it. More often than not, though, Malfoy no longer attended breakfast.

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione sighed. “It’s not funny.” 

“It’s kind of funny,” Ron said with a smirk, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh too. Objectively, he knew how horrible it must be to receive hate mail, death threats and Howlers almost every morning, but this was  _ Malfoy,  _ and the animosity ran deep enough that Harry took some sort of vindictive pleasure in knowing that Malfoy was too humiliated to come to breakfast most mornings. 

Hermione shot them both a dark look, and they stopped smiling. “It’s  _ not.  _ He hardly ever comes to breakfast anymore.” 

“Oh, come on, Hermione, you can’t actually feel sorry for -” 

“Well -” she flushed a little, clearly apprehensive that she might become the victim of their ridicule instead of Malfoy if she carried on. “I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s getting really bad.” 

“He deserves a lot more than a few Howlers if you ask me,” Ron said, shrugging and devouring another sausage, undeterred by their conversation, or the look Hermione was giving him. 

“Some of them are really vulgar from what I’ve heard,” she frowned, “they’d be enough to reduce anyone to tears. And it’s not just the Howlers.” 

“What?” Harry and Ron both looked up from their food.

“Oh, you can’t pretend you haven’t noticed how the other students are treating him.” 

That was true, at least. He was getting a lot of snide comments and such in the corridors, and a lot of students took it upon themselves to attempt some sort of hex, since the packages were being intercepted by Prefects. He never turned up to any inter-house social event (he didn’t even come to Quidditch anymore - after someone had hexed his broom back in October, Malfoy had been deemed a liability by their captain, and subsequently kicked off the team), and Harry didn’t know if it was because he wasn’t invited, or because he didn’t want to be around people who would subject him to anymore torment than he already received. Nevertheless, Harry couldn’t find it in him to feel any sort of sympathy. 

“It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it,” Ron said, and Harry silently agreed. 

Hermione huffed, but conceded nonetheless, and she didn’t speak about it again. “Did you see the countdown in the Common Room?” 

“Did you put that up?” Harry asked, finishing his pumpkin juice and pouring himself another glass.

“No,” Hermione said brightly, with a smile like a proud parent. “I was considering it, but some fifth year beat me to it. I’m glad some of us are taking our exams seriously.” 

“Wh - Hey!” Ron noticed the look Hermione was giving him. “It’s only March.” 

“Yes, but N.E.W.T.s are a lot more intense than O.W.L.s. You should start studying.” Hermione pointed her spoon at him accusingly. “You can join Annie and I tomorrow afternoon, if you want.”

Annie was Hermione’s new study partner; a Ravenclaw student also in her final year of Hogwarts. Except, unlike Harry, Ron and Hermione, she wasn’t in her ‘Eighth Year’ (a title which had been made up just for the special cases of those who missed their final year due to the war), she was in Ginny’s year, and she seemed to take school just as seriously as Hermione did. 

“No, uh, that’s alright.” Ron said sheepishly. “Anyway, we better go. It’s Potions first.” 

\------

They took their Potions class with the other ‘Eighth Year’ N.E.W.T.s students - there wasn’t enough of them to divide into houses now - and Harry’s lack of enthusiasm towards the subject had lessened slightly since they no longer took it with just the Slytherins, and since Snape was no longer their teacher. Harry tried to ignore the twinge of guilt he felt when he ever thought positively about Snape no longer teaching them; even if Harry’s opinion of him had shifted somewhat during the war, he had still been a truly awful teacher - he had made Harry (and many other students) miserable.

They were only slightly late, and took their usual seats at the back of the class, on the table next to Anthony Goldstein and Ernie Macmillan. Anthony and Ernie weren’t the only people sitting with students from other houses - there was a cluster of Ravenclaws and Slytherins a few tables over, and Seamus and Dean were sat with a blonde haired Hufflepuff boy. Harry noticed briefly that even Parvati was sat with a dark-haired Slytherin girl, and the only partnership that couldn’t be seen in the classroom right now was one between Gryffindor and Slytherin boys. 

They set about working on their Potions after a brief reminder from Slughorn about the importance of N.E.W.T.s, and Hermione got to work immediately, a determined look on her face. Since Harry had given up Snape’s book in Sixth Year, his talent at Potions had diminished almost instantaneously and Slughorn was a little disappointed at the sudden drop in his grades. 

On top of that, Harry couldn’t help but feel as if school was a little mundane now. He didn’t feel much like a student anymore, and no matter how hard he tried, he found it difficult to settle back into classes, and homework and Quidditch matches and the House Cup. It all felt a little trivial to him, and he found himself struggling to switch off from the mindset of battle; he was still half-expecting Voldemort to turn up and wreak havoc on the school again. But, no matter how much he thought about it, nothing seemed to happen at Hogwarts anymore, and Harry hated himself for somewhat wishing it would. 

“You know that your Potion is supposed to be silver and runny, don’t you, Harry?” Hermione leaned over him to peer into his cauldron. “Not… purple and viscous.” 

“Yeah. Thanks, Hermione,” Harry sighed and cleared his cauldron, starting again from scratch. 

“There’s a pre-Quidditch party tomorrow night. Seamus just told me,” Ron informed them both as he returned from the ingredients table. “They’re holding it in one of the unused classrooms near the Slytherin Common Room.” 

“You two aren’t thinking about going, are you?” Hermione said disapprovingly. “You have homework to do,  _ and _ you have to start -”

“Studying for our N.E.W.T.s, we know,” Ron smirked at her and she couldn’t help but smile too, averting her eyes. 

Harry wasn’t really considering going, if he was honest. He had attended quite a few parties this year but they all seemed a little forced, like the students were trying too hard to paint over the cracks left from the war. As if a party would bring back the carefree atmosphere the students had before the war, or as if it would make them forget the relatives, classmates and friends that they had recently lost. 

“I don’t think I’ll go,” Harry muttered after a moment’s thought, and Ron frowned. 

“Oh, come on, mate,” he urged, “Seamus is sneaking in Firewhiskey, it’s gonna be a right laugh.”

“I’ll think about it,” Harry said, even though he had no intention of reconsidering. 

“Hermione, what about you?” 

“I just told you -” 

“You can take a break for one weekend,” he gave her a mildly pleading look, and then there was a moment of silent conversation between the two of them, before she flushed ever so slightly, nudging him. They didn’t often act like a couple, really, and not much had changed between the three of them, but ever so often, Harry was reminded that his two best friends were in fact dating, and he was hit by the awkward feeling of invading on that again.

“Okay, fine.” She conceded, surrendering to whatever silent plea Ron had subjected her to. 

“Brilliant,” Ron grinned.

From the other side of the classroom, there was a rather loud smash, a collection of slight screams and yelps, and the sound of Pansy Parkinson crying;  _ “Fuck!”  _ Harry looked over to see that Pansy had somehow managed to mess up her potion so considerably, that it had burst her cauldron, and was now burning its way through her desk.

“Ten points from Slytherin for the language, Miss Parkinson,” Slughorn cleared his throat and with a wave of his wand, rid Pansy’s desk of the substance. 

“Sorry, Professor,” Pansy sighed, obviously distressed. “I can’t concentrate today.” 

Daphne Greengrass had her arm around Pansy’s shoulders, muttering something to her, and Harry got the impression that Daphne was comforting her. Harry frowned a little, and it was only then that he noticed the absence of white-blonde hair in the classroom. “Where’s Malfoy?” He leaned into Ron and Hermione, whispering since the entire class had fallen quiet. 

“Dunno,” Ron mumbled after a quick glance around. 

“She’s upset, Professor,” Daphne told Slughorn, rubbing Pansy’s back a little. “It’s Draco, he-” 

“Ah, yes, I heard about the incident with Mr. Malfoy,” Slughorn frowned, as if there was a bitter taste in his mouth. “Very well, work with Miss Greengrass for the rest of the class.” 

Harry’s curiosity increased. Where was Malfoy? Clearly his absence and Pansy’s distress were related, especially since his name had been mentioned in the conversation. Harry wondered whether Malfoy had done something heinous and was being punished, or whether he had had some sort of accident that rendered him unable to attend Potions. He was leaning towards the former, but with the way Malfoy’s year had been going at Hogwarts, the latter was just as possible. 

Harry walked to the ingredients table - half because he needed to since he was starting from scratch, and half because doing so would mean he had to pass Pansy’s desk, and he was hoping to catch a glimpse of the conversation. As he passed, Pansy stopped whatever she was saying to turn her attention to Harry, a loathing look instantly washing over her features.

“What do you want, Potter?” She spat, her vulnerability that was clear moments ago vanishing, replaced by a hard and arrogant expression. “Come to gloat, have you?”

“Er -” Harry stopped, looking at her. “No?”

“Don’t play dumb, you must be loving this,” Pansy straightened, and looked as if she were going to reach into her robes, but Daphne stopped her, turning her away from Harry. 

Harry frowned all the way to the ingredients table. He didn’t really know what Pansy was talking about, but it definitely confirmed his suspicions that something had happened involving Malfoy. As he was spooning powder into his pot, one of the Ravenclaws that Harry saw sitting with the Slytherins earlier came to join him, collecting some roots. 

“What happened?” He took a chance with her; he would have more luck getting information from her than one of the Slytherins.

She considered him for a moment, stilling in her motion of collecting roots, and then sighed. “It’s Malfoy. He got hexed this morning, he’s in the hospital wing again.”

It was hardly Malfoy’s first trip to the hospital wing this year, nor was it his first hex of the year. Harry wasn’t remotely surprised, and he really didn’t think it merited such a reaction from Pansy. 

“Oh. Right.” He tried to sound indifferent. “Was it bad?”

“Not really.” She shrugged. “No one really knows what it was. The Prefects didn’t check his packages this morning and, well, Draco doesn’t usually open them anymore, but this one opened itself. It was cursed, and whatever it was knocked him out. They said he’ll be okay by this afternoon.” 

“That’s good,” Harry said automatically, with no hint of sincerity in his voice. “Why is Pansy so upset then?”

“Oh, you know what she’s like,” the Ravenclaw girl glanced at Pansy, as if making sure she wasn’t listening, or to make sure no one saw her having a conversation with Harry. “She dotes on Draco like a puppy.”

“Yeah, they’re dating, right?” Harry spooned some more powder into his pot, and the girl snorted as if this comment was hilarious.

“ _ Dating?”  _ She echoed, scoffing as if that were ridiculous. “ _ Malfoy?”  _

Harry couldn’t help but feel like he was missing the joke. He blinked and she seemed to notice his cluelessness, because her amusement vanished fast. 

“Uh, no, they’re not dating,” she said, a little hurriedly, like she was trying to move past the moment. “Besides, it’s not just that.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry looked up at her. She was pretty, and Harry thought it was a shame that she spent a lot of time with Slytherins. 

“It’s just, well, it’s  _ today,  _ you know?” 

“No.”

“The date,” she prompted, as if confused at why he didn’t know.

“The 13th,” Harry said, expecting some sort of comprehension to suddenly dawn on him.

“ _ Friday  _ the 13th,” she corrected and then blushed a little, as if embarrassed. 

“That’s a muggle thing, isn’t it? Friday the 13th being unlucky it’s - well, it’s just muggle stuff.”

“Yeah,” she was blushing again. “I know it’s silly, but it’s just - well, a lot of Purebloods are just wary of it. It’s been marked as unlucky by muggles for long enough in history that it just holds a sort of… Well, power to it. A lot of bad things happen for us on these dates; there’s a lot of magic in emotion, you know.” 

“Right.” Harry blinked. He couldn’t help but be surprised that Purebloods took into account anything to do with the muggle world.

“Cursing someone today is just… Well, it’s just spiteful. It’s like it’s encouraging the situation to worsen,” She tried to explain, “as if he’s more likely to die from it today than any other day.”

“But it’s not  _ real,”  _ he spooned more powder into his pot without looking, only to feel it spill onto his fingers. He had overloaded his pot. “It’s not really unlucky, is it?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, there’s a lot of magic in things like that, and well, it’s just better to be cautious when it comes to that. It’s nothing major for us anyway, but Pansy is a little over dramatic when it comes to Draco,” she smirked as if this amused her, but there was affection in her expression. “They’d be a good couple, it’s a shame.”

Harry didn’t know what was ‘a shame’, nor did he really care about Draco Malfoy’s love life (especially not Draco  _ and  _ Pansy - he hated them both) but he didn’t get to find out, because the Ravenclaw girl finished collecting her roots and said goodbye, walking back to her table. 

After he spent a moment cleaning up the mess he had made with his powder, he returned to Ron and Hermione, filling them in on what the Ravenclaw girl - who Hermione informed him was called Mandy - had told him. 

“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” Hermione said when Harry had finished. “Friday the 13th, I’ve read about it. Like she said, a lot of it is just magic harnessed by the emotions. A lot of muggles used to really believe in superstition and witchcraft, and it just sort of came from that. They were very frightened of it, and a lot of them persecuted witches and wizards more that day than any other day, except Halloween. It just became a sort of… thing in the wizarding world too. It’s silly superstition, really, just like the fear of Voldemort’s name.” 

“I didn’t think Purebloods really got superstitious,” Harry started on his potion again. 

“They do,” Ron nodded. “Mum believes in all of that kind of stuff, she said that a lot of old spells and enchantments only worked on days like today, and Halloween and stuff. That’s why people used to get scared, and it just kind of stuck.” 

“She’s right about Pansy Parkinson too, she’s really rather over dramatic about Malfoy,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “They’re both in my Ancient Runes class and she fusses over him like a wife.”

“Mandy said they’re not dating,” Harry said conversationally, even though the topic did not interest him at all. 

“I don’t think they are. Malfoy looks irritated by her most of the time, but he seems to indulge her because he likes the attention.” Hermione spooned some of her potion into a jar and started to test it. Harry was briefly reminded of Malfoy sprawling in Pansy’s lap, letting her stroke his hair.

“Yeah, I reckon it’s exactly like that,” Harry grimaced a little at the thought of anyone wanting to give Malfoy that kind of attention. 

“You’d think she’d be used to Malfoy being carted off to the hospital wing by now,” Ron said, snorting a laugh. “It’s gotta be his hundredth time this year.”

Hermione huffed her annoyance again, and Harry smirked across the table at Ron. 

“Oh, dear,” Slughorn came over to their desk, “starting again, are you, Harry?”

“Yeah, I - I did it wrong the first time.” Harry shifted sheepishly.

“Not to worry, just hurry up a little and you’ll catch up with everyone else,” Slughorn patted his back, and Harry felt almost guilty to see that Slughorn still clung onto some hope that Harry would once again be miraculously good at Potions. “Ah, Miss Granger, you shred salamander tail, not slice it.” 

Hermione looked mortified that she had gotten it wrong, and hurried to correct her mistake. 

\----

“Annie cancelled on me tomorrow evening!” Hermione slammed her books down on the table as she joined them for lunch in the Great Hall. “She’s going to that party instead.”

“ _ You’re  _ going to that party too,” Ron said through a mouthful of food. 

“Yes, but I was going to study beforehand too,” she sighed, dishing out some salad and grabbing a sandwich. “I suppose the three of us will have to study together instead.”

“Can’t,” Harry said quickly to avoid Hermione from getting any kind of ideas. “I’m going flying, practice a bit before the game on Sunday.” 

“It’s a friendly match, you don’t need to practice,” Hermione glared at him. 

“It’s against  _ Slytherin,  _ though. We wanna win,” Harry shrugged, taking a bite of his sandwich. 

“Oh, honestly, the point of these matches is inter-house cooperation - to make friends - not to… not to beat one another!” Hermione said exasperatedly, turning her attention to Ron instead. “What about you?” 

“Oh, come on, Hermione, don’t make me study with you,” he whined, and she seemed to consider it. “I was gonna join Harry on the pitch.” 

“Alright, how about we go to the pitch to accompany Harry as he practices,” Hermione began and Ron looked hopeful, “but we sit in the stands and study too.”

Ron deflated. “Fine.” 

“Good.” Hermione smiled at him but Ron glowered even further. “Come on, it’s a compromise.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, and it seemed to work in cheering him up, because he settled for a more neutral expression, his cheeks colouring ever so slightly. 

“They might mix up the teams again tomorrow,” Hermione turned to Harry, returning to their previous thread of conversation. Harry thought it unlikely; they hardly ever mixed up the Slytherin-Gryffindor matches. 

“Probably not,” Harry glanced at the Slytherin table anyway, considering the idea. He saw that Pansy was talking animatedly to the other Eighth Year students, and that Malfoy was absent from the table again. 

As if following his line of thought, Hermione said; “Malfoy didn’t turn up to Arithmancy either this morning.” 

“Maybe he died,” Ron said hopefully and Hermione nudged him. Even Harry couldn’t bring himself to laugh at that; less than a year after the war, the prospect of anyone - even Malfoy - dying wasn’t remotely funny. Ron seemed to realise that, because he cleared his throat and quickly changed the topic.

“You know, I heard that Tommy Carmichael - that’s Eddie’s little brother - wants to ask you out. He’s in Hufflepuff,” Ron said and to Harry’s surprise, he found that Ron was directing the statement at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Ron smirked. “He’s in Ginny’s year, he’s got it into his head that you’re - well, gay. He’s building up the courage to ask you out.” 

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but found himself a little lost for words. His cheeks were hot and he snorted a laugh. “Right. Great. The Daily Prophet will be all over that soon.” 

“Probably. Maybe you should tell him you’re not gay before he starts telling people,” Ron sounded amused, and gestured with his fork towards the Hufflepuff table. 

Harry followed the direction of Ron’s fork to the Hufflepuffs, and saw that Tommy Carmichael looked nothing like Eddie. Whilst Eddie was dark haired, pale and short, Tommy was dirty blonde, freckled, and almost as tall as Ron. He did not look like the type who would be gay, but Harry didn’t really know what ‘the type’ looked like, or if there was even a ‘type’. He blinked a little, watching Tommy talk to one of his friends and laughing. He had a bright smile and Harry’s stomach did a funny kind of jolt. Deciding that the prospect of Tommy asking him out was confusing him, he turned his attention away from the attractive Hufflepuff boy and looked down the table at Ginny. 

Ron refrained from mentioning Ginny too much around Harry nowadays. They hadn’t really reconciled from their breakup last year, or more, they hadn’t really officially declared that they were a couple yet. They flirted a little and Ginny seemed to pursue him with enthusiasm but Harry was yet to return to her properly. It was clear that Ron didn’t really know what to make of the situation, so he avoided talking about it out of sheer awkwardness. Hermione, however, shared no such stance and often questioned Harry about Ginny, and about when the two of them would get back together, since she was sure they made a very good couple. 

Harry wasn’t sure why he hadn’t reconciled with Ginny yet. He just… hadn’t. Every time he thought about it, some weird feeling in his gut stopped him. He knew it was something to do with the war, he just didn’t know what.

Ginny looked up from her conversation, and Harry instantly regretted that she had caught him staring at her. She smiled, blushed, and after a moment of lingering on him, turned back to her friends with a happier air about her than before. Harry knew what she had assumed, and he didn’t want to get her hopes up. 

With a sigh, he turned back to Ron and Hermione. They were looking at him. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Ron smiled, glancing ever so briefly at Ginny. “So, are you gonna tell Carmichael you’re not gay?” 

“Er, no.” Harry said and tried to ignore the funny feeling in his stomach. “I’d rather not have that awkward conversation, especially not if he fancies me.” 

“Half the school fancies you, Harry,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “Take no notice of it, I’m sure Carmichael isn’t the only boy with a crush on you.” 

“Great. That makes me feel loads better. Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said sarcastically, taking an apple and shoving it in his bag. “Come on, we better head to class.” 

\------

Defence Against the Dark Arts was still Harry’s favourite subject by far, even if his enthusiasm for it had diminished somewhat since the war. It felt a little less pressing to learn defence now that Voldemort was gone, and even his desire to be an Auror was less prominent. As much as Harry wanted to fight the Dark Arts and help bring down Voldemort’s followers, the idea of jumping straight back into battle left him feeling a little clammy, but he knew that becoming an Auror was what he had to do. There was no way he couldn’t graduate and become a Dark Wizard catcher, especially not after all of the work against the Dark Arts he had done while he was still in school. And now, he hated that he was sitting in Hogwarts, finishing his education and doing  _ nothing  _ about the battle that still wasn’t over. Voldemort was gone, but the Death Eaters weren’t. 

Their teacher introduced them to their new topic (they had just finished the last one), and told them that they would be learning how to de-jinx cursed objects. Harry thought it a little ironic that they were starting this topic on the same day that Malfoy got cursed via post, and Pansy clearly thought so too, because she made an odd sort of noise. 

The demonstration took half an hour of their double period, but that was common for introductions to new topics, and just as the teacher was about to split them into pairs (the spell needed two people for it to work), the classroom door swung open and Malfoy walked in. Everyone turned to look at him, and Pansy made a little gasp and beckoned him to the seat beside her. 

He didn’t look good; his eyes were a little bloodshot and dark, his hair was messy and he walked with a sort of lethargy to him that didn’t suit him. He was sure that if this had been a few year ago, Malfoy would have swaggered into the classroom and relished in the attention. Now, he looked exhausted and dishevelled; the old Malfoy wouldn’t have been caught dead looking like this. Harry wondered how much of his appearance was down to the effects of the curse, and how much of it was just basic exhaustion from being constantly hexed and hated wherever you went. After the year Umbridge had been in the school, Harry had a pretty good idea what it felt like to be vilified relentlessly. Nevertheless, Harry had been vilified undeservingly - Malfoy was a Death Eater, even if he had been acquitted under the basis that he was too young to really understand his actions. 

“Draco, are you okay? I’ve been terribly worried,” Pansy reached up and stroked his hair a little, fixing it back into place. 

“I’m fine,” he said, irritated. Harry figured, even if he had no sympathy for Malfoy, that he understood how irritating it must be for Pansy to draw even more attention to Malfoy’s attack, especially since he knew how much Slytherins hated looking weak. 

“Are you sure you’re well enough to come back to class?” She pushed on, seemingly unaware that everyone - including the Professor - was still watching them. 

Malfoy did seem to notice that they were still being watched, and he straightened a little in response to Pansy’s question. “Well, actually,” he cleared his throat and that typical arrogance was back in his voice, “Pomfrey wanted me to stay until tomorrow morning, but I decided to come back anyway.”

“That’s very brave, Draco,” she smiled at him proudly, and Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Er, anyway,” the Professor seemed to remember he had a class to teach. “It’s good to have you back Mr. Malfoy. We’ve moved onto to de-jinxing cursed objects now.”

There was a flicker of response in Malfoy’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything, and so Harry turned his attention back to the front of the class. 

“Where was I? Ah, yes, you have to work in pairs to carry out this spellwork efficiently,” the Professor pulled out a register of the class. “I’ll divide you up myself - I haven’t done any of that yet and Professor McGonagall wants you to work with each other. Miss Parkinson, you can stay with Mr. Malfoy and catch him up on what he’s missed.” 

Then, he set about dividing the class up and Harry’s stomach dropped when he instructed that Harry join Blaise Zabini on the Slytherin desk. Ron was instructed to work with Terry Boot and Hermione partnered with Ernie Macmillan. Harry couldn’t help but feel he had the worst lot of them all, and they clearly agreed, because they gave him apologetic glances as he collected his books and carried them over to the Slytherin desk, sitting himself at the end so that he was as close as possible to the next desk - where Ron was sat. 

Harry’s new seating meant that he and Zabini were stationed right next to Pansy and Malfoy who looked just as bitter as Harry felt. He and Malfoy still despised each other, but they didn’t bother one another much this year - it all felt a little childish after the war, and Harry was sure that the events of the past year or so had created some sort of silent understanding between the two of them. They didn’t have to like each other, but they didn’t purposefully make each other’s lives difficult anymore. 

That didn’t really stop Pansy though, because she sniffed and folded her arms. “Can you smell something rotten, Draco?” 

The three Slytherins laughed and Harry decided he might ‘accidentally’ hex them when performing the counter-curse. He and Blaise worked together in silence. They had to identify which of the curses from the book was placed on the box, and then decide which counter-curse to use against it. It was difficult to complete the task without communicating, but Harry didn’t want to be the first one to cooperate, and apparently neither did Zabini. 

Instead of filling Malfoy in on what he’d missed, Pansy spent her time fussing over him, asking what had happened. He told her exactly what the Ravenclaw girl - Mandy - had told Harry during Potions; the prefects didn’t check his post, and one of the packages opened by itself like a Howler, and hexed him. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“I passed out, Pansy,” Malfoy retaliated, a little coldly and Harry noticed Pansy looking affronted. “What do you think?”

“Sorry,” she said, brushing it off as if it didn’t bother her, “I was just worried about you.” 

“Give him a break, Pansy,” Zabini interrupted. “He’s only just got back. Anyway, have you two figured out what’s wrong with your object?”

“No,” Malfoy flicked to the right page in his book, before turning back to his object - a golden orb, inscribed with what looked like Arabic, “I missed the first half of the class, remember?”

Zabini seemed to use this moment to finally speak to Harry, because he turned to him and said; “what about our box?”

“I don’t know,” Harry sighed, looking through the book. “I think it could be this one, the Greek one. I tried a couple of spells on it, and if the reactions are anything to go by then I think-”

“Alright,” Zabini cut him off, as if he’d reached his limit of how much of Harry’s voice he could listen to. “I thought it was either that one or the French one, so you’re probably right.” 

“Great.” Harry had never felt less enthusiastic about Defence Against the Dark Arts. “I’ll go and get the instructions for the counter-curse from the Professor.” 

“Let Blaise do it, Potter.” Pansy interrupted, not even looking at him. “I’m going to see if we can get extra notes since Draco missed the demonstration. Come with me, Blaise.” 

The two of them walked away from the desk and Harry was left alone with Malfoy. He shot a glance at Ron and was thankful to catch his friend’s eye. Ron laughed when he saw that Harry was alone with Malfoy, who seemed to be resolutely pretending Harry didn’t exist. In order to distract himself from the fact he was working on the same desk as Malfoy, he looked down at the textbook, half-listening as Malfoy shot various useless curses at his object in some attempt to de-jinx it. 

Harry couldn’t help but look down at the Arabic curses, since he was sure that’s what Pansy and Malfoy were dealing with. They hadn’t figured that out themselves yet, and Harry had no desire to tell them, instead he just rejoiced in the pleasure of knowing that he had figured out both his own curse and theirs before the Slytherins. 

Under each curse subheading there was a list of spells that should not be performed upon objects that could possibly be cursed. Their professor had reiterated the curses that shouldn’t be performed at least three times during the demonstration, but as Malfoy started another string of curses that sounded worryingly familiar, Harry realised that Malfoy didn’t really know any of that. Before he could really think about what he was doing, Harry raised his wand.

_ “Expelliarmus!”  _

Malfoy’s wand slipped from his hand and fell with a clatter onto the floor. Malfoy hadn’t managed to finish his spell, and he turned to Harry with an incredulous look. Harry had just saved Malfoy’s life without really considering it, and he had a feeling that Malfoy wouldn’t be in any rush to thank him. Instead, he was sure that it would make Malfoy even angrier. 

“Potter, do you have some kind of obsession with disarming me?” Malfoy growled, bending down to grab his wand. “This wand has already been yours once, do you want it back?” 

Shortly after the battle of Hogwarts, Harry had sent Malfoy’s wand back to him with a note of thanks, even though Malfoy had never given it up willingly. Nevertheless, he had used that wand to defeat Voldemort, and he owed Malfoy some sort of thanks for that. 

“No, I -” Harry started sheepishly; Malfoy looked furious. A few of their classmates had looked around at the sound of Harry casting the spell, and even their Professor was interested. “No. The spell you were casting…”

“What about it?” Malfoy snapped, a pink tinge appearing on his cheeks under the attention of the class. Harry was sure Malfoy didn’t want everyone to see him being disarmed randomly by Harry Potter. 

“It would’ve - er - reacted really badly with your cursed object,” Harry told him, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Malfoy stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“How can you possibly know that?” Malfoy said contemptuously. “Is there anything our  _ Saviour _ doesn’t know?” 

Harry tried not to flush under the comment, and reminded himself that his reply was going to embarrass Malfoy even more than Harry felt right now. “Er, the Professor told us. You missed the beginning of the class. And…” he leaned forward and jabbed his finger into Malfoy’s book. “It says so right there. Under the Arabic curses.” 

Just like he guessed, Malfoy’s cheeks coloured. “That - We haven’t figured out what curse-” 

“It’s probably an Arabic curse. It’s inscribed on the side facing me.” Harry didn’t like that he was coming across as somewhat of a know-it-all.

“Excellent.” Malfoy rolled his eyes, turning back to his object. “Really, we should all go back to our Common Rooms and let Saint Potter finish up de-jinxing all our objects for us. Honestly, you and Granger are blending into one.”

“I was just trying to -” 

“-save my life,” Malfoy finished for him, with absolutely no hint of gratefulness in his tone. “Thank you so much, Potter. Whatever would the wizarding world do without your heroic presence?” 

“Alright, that’s quite enough, Mr. Malfoy,” the Professor cut in, walking up to them. “Mr. Potter is quite right, it’s an Arabic curse you’ve got there. If it hadn’t been for his quick reflexes, you would have been dead, or at least rushed to the hospital wing..” 

Malfoy muttered something under his breath. 

“Twenty points for Gryffindor for Harry’s vigilance, and for saving Mr. Malfoy’s life.” 

That seemed to impossibly infuriate Malfoy even more. 

“You should be deducting points for saving  _ Malfoy _ ,” One of the Hufflepuff boys called out and the class descended into laughter. Harry watched Malfoy as he slammed his book shut and stared at the window, ignoring the rest of the class. He felt a little bit of sympathy for Malfoy, despite himself, and decided to stop himself from laughing with the rest of the class. Especially since it wasn’t even a year since Harry had saved Malfoy from the fiendfyre, he thought it would have been a little tasteless to laugh. 

“Yes, yes, alright, enough,” the Professor called out and Harry noticed there was a glimmer of amusement on even his face. He glanced around the classroom and was grateful to find that, alongside Pansy and Zabini, Hermione also wasn’t laughing. 

After a moment, Pansy stormed over and slammed her notes down onto the desk. “That rotten Tomlinson! Professor Banks ought to have sent him straight out of the class, or at least deducted points!” 

“Just leave it, Pansy,” Malfoy sighed and Harry found himself startled at the exhaustion in Malfoy’s voice. 

“It’s just awful how much the teachers ignore, it’s blatant favouritism, I -” Pansy ignored Malfoy’s request, pressing on hotly, and Harry was strangely reminded of Hermione. 

“We used to get away with worse,” Malfoy said, turning to her.

“I - Yes, I suppose you’re right, but this is getting ridiculous.” Pansy seemed to notice Harry was listening and looked as if she had suddenly swallowed something horrible. “What are you looking at, Potter? Do you expect some sort of thanks to feed your hero-complex?” 

Harry hurriedly turned his attention back to his notes, wanting no such thing, just as Zabini joined them at the desk and handed Harry the notes. “Here, the counter-curse. Not like you’ll need instructions, Golden Boy.” 

Pansy snorted a laugh in the background. 

“Thanks.” Harry said anyway, taking the notes from Zabini and looking through them. “Here, you take this spell and I’ll do the counter-curse.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want to do it all by yourself?” Zabini rolled his eyes. 

“The spellwork is a two man job.” Harry replied tiredly. “I know my Defence Against the Dark Arts grades are so much better than yours, but I thought even you would be able to grasp that you can’t do a two-person spell by yourself.” 

To his astonishment, he heard Malfoy laugh; genuine and without malice or mockery. Not really knowing what to do with that, he decided to ignore it.

“Very funny, Potter,” Zabini scowled. “Let’s just finish this task so you can go back to your adoring fans. _ ” _

\-------

“That was really observant of you, Harry,” Hermione turned to him as they left Defence Against the Dark Arts and headed back to Gryffindor Tower. “If you hadn’t disarmed Draco, he could have died.” 

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Ron said sarcastically. 

“You saved his life, Harry.” She seemed more proud that Harry had paid attention in class rather than the fact he had saved Malfoy’s life. “I don’t think even I would have made the connection between what Professor Banks said and Malfoy’s spell as fast as you did.” 

“Great,” Harry mumbled, heading up the staircase. “Look, the last thing I need is any more heroic rumours spread around about me. People really are going to think I have a hero complex.” 

Even Hermione had accused Harry of having a hero complex back in fifth year. “It’s only going to improve people’s opinion of you.” 

“Yeah, and I don’t need it. I don’t need any more people thinking I’m some big hero. I just heard his spell, and I reacted. I didn’t even think about it.” 

“Gloating, are you?” Malfoy’s voice came from behind them, pushing past with Pansy and Zabini following in his wake. “Recounting your valiant heroic tale to your friends? I suppose you want them to tell you how brave and great you are, don’t you?” 

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Ron spat, tugging Harry up a different staircase, away from Malfoy and his friends. “Harry should have let you jinx yourself; if you’d blown yourself up, you’d have done us all a favour.” 

Harry only glanced back for long enough to see Malfoy colour a little, his jaw clenching, before he was out of sight. Ron gave the password to the portrait and they clambered into the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione threw herself into one of their favourite chairs by the fireplace, and Ron and Harry joined her. She looked sour and gave Ron a warning look.

“I really think you ought to give him a break, Ron.” Hermione repeated for what had to have been the hundredth time that day in Harry’s opinion. 

“Since when have you been chairman of the Malfoy Fanclub?” Ron said exasperatedly, pulling out some of Mrs Weasley’s cake from his bag and taking a bite. 

“‘I’m not!” Hermione replied indignantly and Harry was glad to see she was offended by the accusation. “I just think you should lay off him.”

“Why? We don’t bother him when he doesn’t bother us,” Harry shrugged, accepting the chunk of cake that Ron offered him. 

“I -” Hermione shifted. 

“Why do I get the feeling you know more than we do again?” Ron eyed her suspiciously.

“I’m just more observant than you two. I hate that cockroach as much as you do, but he isn’t exactly having a great time at Hogwarts lately. The students are livid that a… Death Eater… is being allowed to finish his education. You saw what happened today; he was hexed by his own post, I just think-”

“That wasn’t a student, though!” Ron cut in.

“No, not that time, but he was in the hospital wing last month too, do you remember? He was pushed down the stairs.” 

Both Ron and Harry couldn’t help but snort at that.

“Honestly! I don’t know why I bother with you two!” Hermione dug into her bag and pulled out a rather thick Ancient Runes book. “Forget it.” 

“It’s hardly like Malfoy doesn’t give as good as he gets though, Hermione,” Harry argued, feeling strangely guilty for laughing at Malfoy’s troubles. “It’s  _ Malfoy. _ ”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? He  _ doesn’t  _ anymore; he’s not allowed. The Ministry would drag him into Azkaban if he much as thought about hexing another student. And all of the students know that,  _ and  _ with Lucius and Narcissa being in Azkaban, well, the Malfoy name doesn’t really count for anything anymore - no one is afraid of him anymore. They can do whatever they like to him and he can’t fight back unless he wants to share a prison cell with his parents.” 

“Alright, alright, we’ll lay off Malfoy if it makes you happy,” Ron rolled his eyes, stretching out in front of the fire. “He doesn’t deserve it, but we will.” 

“He gets more than he deserves from the rest of the school without you two joining in,” Hermione buried herself in her book, only glancing up to say “and… thank you.” before she was lost in her book.

“Come on, let’s play chess, Harry.” Ron rolled his eyes, walking to the window to set up the chess table. And so, very glad that they were no longer on the topic of being amicable with Malfoy, Harry went with him.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Two Days Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty slow-burn fic and as a result, like I said in the tags, there will be some Harry/Original Male Character content - well this is one of the main chapters involving Harry/OMC. Also some alcohol usage because of the party. Unbeta'd so any mistakes are because i'm a piece of shit

**Saturday, 14th March 1998**

**Two Days Before**

 

“The weather is dismal, Harry,” Hermione said with a whine, “you can’t still be planning to go flying in this weather.” 

“I am.” Harry reached across the table to grab a sandwich. “I’ve practised in worse than this.” 

He cast a glance outside through the window of the Great Hall; Hermione was right, the weather was awful. Rain was coming down heavy and thick, blurring the sight of the grounds beyond the window and streaking down the glass. They were quite used to rain like this at Hogwarts; the kind of rain that forced everybody, even the bravest Gryffindor, to seek refuge inside, and soaked through anyone who spent longer than a minute outside. It pounded a steady drumbeat against the walls and even Harry had to admit, he was not thrilled about venturing outside in it.

“Maybe they’ll cancel the match tomorrow,” Ron suggested. “It’s only a friendly match after all.”

“Ron, they never cancel Quidditch,” Harry said, laughing, and Ron nodded his agreement. “Besides, it might dry up by tomorrow - I’m just practising today.”

It had been a while since Harry had flown - somehow the scheduled matches had worked out so that Gryffindor hadn’t played for a while. It had only been a few weeks, really, but it felt like forever. The adrenaline that always filled him at the prospect of flying was already buzzing in his veins and he hurried through his lunch. 

“I suppose I better bring my umbrella then,” Hermione said miserably, glancing again at the window as if to remind herself exactly what she was venturing out into.

“You two don’t have to come.” 

“Well, no… I suppose not. We were just going to study in the stands, but I suppose we can do that in the Common Room instead.” Hermione looked hopefully at Ron, who seemed to share her reluctance to go outside.

Ron shrugged. “Alright.”

“I think we should focus on Transfigurations today, we have that essay due on Monday.” Hermione pulled out what looked terrifyingly like a revision planner. It was that time of the year again. Harry and Ron stared at her revision planner in horror.

“Oh, no.”

“When are you going to do that essay, Harry? You have the party tonight, and Quidditch tomorrow.” Hermione said accusingly, as if it was his fault. 

“Er. Tomorrow night,” Harry shrugged.

“Fine, but you’re not copying mine.” 

“Fine. I can do Transfigurations fine by myself.” Harry said defensively, even though he was counting on Hermione to give him the answers. 

“Oh, no. What does she want?” 

At Ron’s words, Harry turned to see what he was looking at, and instantly bristled at the sight. Pansy Parkinson was storming towards them, red faced and clutching a sheet of parchment in her fist.

“You foul, evil, pathetic -” Pansy started, breathless from anger. “Which one of you was it?!”

They all stared at her, dumbstruck.

“Which one of you?!” She held the parchment up and brandished it towards them. “I can’t believe it took me this long to realise it was one of  _ you.”  _

“Parkinson, what are you on about?” Ron crinkled his nose. “Get lost, will you?”

She cleared her throat and held out the parchment, reading out a section of the parchment - which Harry could now see was a letter that had been crumpled and torn a little. Either Pansy had crushed it so much in her anger, or someone had recently been fighting over it. After she had read it out, Harry released it was probably the latter. 

“ _ Personally, I think it’s disgusting that the Ministry are letting you back into Hogwarts. I’ve heard that Harry Potter selflessly rescued you yesterday, and I was disappointed to hear that Harry’s heroic instincts stopped you from doing a favour to the entire wizarding world and wiping yourself out. Hero or not, Harry Potter should have just left you to die.”  _

Pansy scrunched up the parchment in her fist and glared at them, furious. “Draco received this today.”

“Look, as much as I might agree with that letter, what’s it gotta do with us?” Ron asked with a bored tone.

“One of you clearly wrote that letter! It sounded exactly like what you said to him yesterday, Weasel! And how did they hear about Potter disarming Draco if it wasn’t  _ you?”  _ Pansy fumed. “I know it was one of you, the writer was practically sucking Potter’s cock and this letter stinks of Mudblood. It makes sense, doesn’t it, you’ve been writing horrible letters to Draco all year.” 

“Yeah, because we’re just that pathetic,” Harry rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, Parkinson, it’s not just us three that hates Malfoy. You’re probably the only person who doesn’t.” 

“I -” Pansy folded her arms, resolute. “I know it was one of -”

“Did it come from one of our owls? Or the school owl? You know what our owls look like, and you know the school owls,” Hermione snapped, infuriated by this lack of logic.

“No, but-” Pansy paused, flustered that she could not pursue her theory anymore. “I won’t hesitate to use an Unforgivable on you. I’m sure the Ministry is too busy catching Death Eaters to bother with me casting one little Cruciatus Curse. I swear, I’m going to -” 

“Pansy!” Malfoy had stormed into the Great Hall, looking just as angry as Pansy had when she had arrived. “You -”

“Draco, I -” Pansy’s furious demeanour faded somewhat and she looked almost apprehensive. “It was one of them, I swear it, Draco.”

“How dare y-” Malfoy rounded on her, snatching the letter out of her hands and shoving it into his robes. His cheeks were a little flushed, and Harry didn’t know if it was from the speed he had approached them, or from embarrassment. 

“No need to hide it, Malfoy,” Ron said casually, an amused smirk on his lips. “Parkinson already read it out to us.”

“You went through my bin to get that out?!” Malfoy snapped, his cheeks colouring more from Ron’s words, but he didn’t address them. 

“I just thought -” Pansy straightened, trying to seem taller as Malfoy stepped closer to her, staring her down. There was at least five inches between the two of them, and Harry could see this was bothering Parkinson immensely. “I’m not your lapdog, Draco! You can’t boss me around like Crabbe and Goyle, I -” 

She immediately seemed to realise she had said the wrong thing, because there was a dangerous glint in Malfoy’s eyes and Pansy fell silent. Harry briefly remembered losing Crabbe in the Room of Requirement, and he figured he knew why Pansy had backed down. 

It was then that Malfoy seemed to realise they were not alone and his eyes flitted to the silent Gryffindor table, who were all watching the affair hungrily - it had been awhile since something exciting had happened at Hogwarts. Turning back to Pansy, he collected himself, straightening his stance.

“I’ll deal with you later, Parkinson,” Malfoy muttered in an undertone, and Harry practically saw the chill run through Pansy. 

“You don’t scare me, Draco.” She breathed, but her voice betrayed her words.

“We’ll see.” He glanced at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, shooting them a glare that forced them to avert their gazes, before turning and sweeping out of the Great Hall, his robes flowing behind him. 

Pansy flushed a little, opening her mouth a few times as if to speak, before closing it wordlessly. She stared at Malfoy’s retreat until after he had gone, before turning back to the trio, but her rage had deflated somewhat under Malfoy’s own. 

“Like I said, if I find out it was one of you three-” She said, rather pathetically. The threat was almost non-existent now. 

“Oh, please,” Hermione huffed her annoyance. “It wasn’t us.” 

“I mean it, I’m not scared of using an Unforgivable on any of you.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the hall just like Malfoy had done moments before. The semi-silence that had descended over the Gryffindor table as they watched the commotion broke, and the chatter started up again. Harry and Ron turned back to Hermione and sighed.

“Why do I get the feeling that our Malfoy-free days are over?” Ron said miserably, picking at his food. “I thought it was too good to be true that Malfoy wasn’t getting in our way.” 

Hermione still looked infuriated. “That Parkinson is such a  _ cow.  _ You’d think with the reputation they’ve all gotten for themselves, they’d keep a little quieter.”

“I thought you wanted us to lay off Malfoy?” Harry said with a smirk, raising his eyebrow.

“I never said anything about laying off  _ Parkinson  _ too. She deserves a lot more than she gets.” Hermione collected her books. “Anyway, I’m going to the library before the Slytherins come up with yet another thing to blame us for.” 

\------

Flying had been just as exhilarating as Harry had hoped it would be, even with the rain lashing painfully against his skin. He had found a spell that made his clothes waterproof, though, and it helped his situation considerably. But he could do nothing for his exposed skin, and when he landed back on the ground, his face was sore and pink, flushed from exhaustion and cold. Flying was somewhat of a catharsis for him, especially now that he had nothing else to exert his pent up energy on. It was a good way of releasing tension, and the clear air rushing through his lungs always helped to wipe him clean, to clear his mind of any worries, or any thoughts at all. 

He figured that everybody needed some kind of escape: Hermione had books; Dean had drawing; Ron had - well, actually, Harry didn’t know what Ron did to de-stress - and Harry had his broom. In some other universe, one where Harry didn’t feel so obligated to ensure nothing else like Voldemort ever happened again, he was sure he would have made a damn good professional Quidditch player. He could almost see it; Professional Seeker Harry Potter. 

With a sigh, he picked up his broom and set off back towards the castle, his outfit soaked with rain and streaked with mud from his heavy landing. Even if it didn’t penetrate through to his skin, his clothes were still uncomfortable and heavy with rainwater. 

“Hi, Harry,” a nervous voice that Harry didn’t recognise had joined him by his side and Harry turned to see Tommy Carmichael walking with him. Unlike Harry, he was in his robes and clearly soaked to the skin; his dirty blonde hair was plastered to his forehead and his white shirt was practically see through from the water. 

“Oh. Hey, Tommy,” Harry tried a smile. He knew exactly why Tommy had decided to walk with Harry; it was only yesterday that Ron had told him about Tommy’s affections.

“Are you going to that party tonight? In the Dungeon?” He asked, shivering a little from the rain.

“Er, yeah, I think so,” Harry said awkwardly, looking anywhere but Tommy. 

“Sounds so sinister, doesn’t it? ‘In the Dungeon’,” Tommy laughed at his own comment, and Harry could tell he was a little nervous, “well, er, I’m going to be there too. So I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Look, Tommy, I -” Harry began, ready to tell Tommy that he wasn’t gay and that he had no idea what gave Tommy that impression. He turned to Tommy and the words died in his throat. Tommy was staring at him through the sheet of rainfall, his hazel eyes fixed on him, and Harry felt embarrassed that he was being given such attention. He didn’t know if it was some leftover adrenaline from the flying, but as he met Tommy’s eyes, his pulse picked up. “Uh - yeah. I’ll… I’ll see you there.”

Tommy looked mildly surprised, and a little satisfied, and Harry knew that he had matched the intensity in Tommy’s gaze at least a little. He always felt riled after a particularly good flight, and he figured that his uncharacteristic response to Tommy’s attention was probably something to do with that. 

Harry decided not to dwell on why, despite the heavy icy rain, Harry felt warmer than he would have done if he was sat in front of the fire in the Common Room. 

“Great,” Tommy said weakly, darting his tongue out to lick the rainwater from his lips, and Harry was surprised to find himself hyper aware of it. “I’m bringing some alcohol to the party, maybe you could, uh - share it with me.” 

“Right. Maybe.” Harry blinked. 

“Right.” Tommy broke his gaze away from Harry, grinning brightly, and Harry’s stomach gave a funny feeling that he decided was probably guilt. He was leading Tommy on - he wasn’t interested, he wasn’t even gay. “I’ll see you tonight, Harry.” 

“See you, Tommy.” Harry said numbly, watching Tommy jog across the grounds to Herbology. 

Harry walked the rest of the way in resolute silence, forcing himself not to think about what had just happened. He was so successful in his feat that by the time he reached the Gryffindor Tower, he had almost forgotten his interaction with Tommy Carmichael. 

\--------

“I already told you, I’m not going.” 

Pansy Parkinson huffed in response, folding her arms and fixing him with an unimpressed stare. She was already dressed and ready to go; her robes had been swapped for a skirt, blouse and heels and her usually straight hair had been curled and fell around her face. She looked great, and Draco figured he was lucky to have someone this attractive desperate for his attention. 

He was sprawled across one of the sofas in the Slytherin Common Room, still dressed in his robes and tossing a small ball that he had conjured into the air lazily before catching it again. The Common Room was fairly busy, people were coming and going from the party down the corridor, and those who weren’t going were having their own social gathering. Scatters of students clustered in the corners and on the other sofas, having animated political debates or playing games of chess and drinking butterbeer. It was Saturday night after all, and the Slytherin Common Room was often alive with activity on the weekends. 

“What are you going to do instead?” Pansy asked pointedly, still towering in front of him. She had been bugging him to come to this damn party all day, and no matter how many times he had said no, she had pressed on anyway. 

“I don’t know. Harass some first years?” Draco suggested, throwing the ball with some force so that it collided with a group of first years huddled around a game of Exploding Snap. They shot glares at Draco but didn’t bother to react any further. It was satisfying to know that at least the younger students were still terrified of him; he hadn’t completely lost his status.

“You don’t come to any parties anymore!” She protested, shoving his legs to the side and sitting down on the edge of the sofa. “If you’re afraid that they’ll-”

“I’m not afraid!” Draco snapped, sitting up. It was ridiculous for her to suggest that he was scared of a group of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Sure, he knew that he was in no way welcome at the party, but he was not afraid of their reactions if he turned up. “I just don’t want to go. These inter-house parties are so  _ pathetic.  _ It’s all truth or dare and ‘I never’ and braiding one another’s hair. We’re not eleven, and we’re not muggles.”

“They’re not that bad,” Pansy slid her fingers across his leg, trying to entice him into joining her. “The Slytherins are hosting tonight, so it’s hardly going to be some slumber party.” 

“I have a pile of Ancient Runes to get through anyway. Go without me, get laid or something, and stop bothering me.” Draco said tiredly, yawning as if to prove a point. 

He knew that it was low to tell her to go and find another person at the party - he was more than aware that she was interested in him - but her pursuit of him was fruitless and she knew it as well as he did. He had nothing to offer her. He watched as she digested his comment and forced herself to look neutral. “Why don’t  _ you  _ try and get laid too, then?” 

“Ah, yes, I’m sure there are students queuing up just desperate to bed an ex-Death Eater,” Draco rolled his eyes. 

“You could do with the distraction. You’re so tense all the time, if you just -” 

“If you’re trying to persuade me to have sex with you -”

“I’m not!” Pansy rolled her eyes, flushing a little. “I’m just saying, if you come to this party, you might meet someone and -” 

“Pansy.” Draco fixed her with a look. “It’s not going to happen. Do I need to break it down for you? My pool of potential fucks is small as it is, and it’s narrowed down considerably by the fact that  _ everybody despises me.  _ Or did you forget that half the school is on a mission to finish me off? You did a good job of reminding everyone in the Great Hall this morning.”

“I told you I was sorry about that,” Pansy said quietly. “I was just so sure that it was Potter and his minions.”

“Even if it was, I don’t care.” They had had this conversation at least three times today. “I never open my post anyway, I told you. Potter and his friends can send me as many death threats as they like, and the Howlers have never been from anyone at the school, so it doesn’t matter.” 

“Draco, you can’t let this scare you out of going to parties, you -”

“I told you, I’m not scared!” Draco snapped, loud enough to cause a few of the other Slytherins to look around at them. “I just don't want to spend my evening with people like Potter and Granger - it will take me weeks to wash away the smell.”

“We used to be able to show up at parties and make everybody else feel unwelcome. What happened to that?” 

“I’m going to look over my notes in my bed. Have a good night, Pansy,” Draco said briskly, standing up. 

“Draco,” Pansy followed him, standing in front of him in the doorway that lead to the dormitories. “Please. You don’t even come to Quidditch or Hogsmeade anymore, it’s like you’ve just given up. I know this year has been tough, what with your parents being -”

“Don’t talk about my parents.” Draco said coldly.

“Right. Fine. But please come to the party. It will be fun, and people are going to be so pissed that you turned up,” She smiled and reached between them to take his hand, threading their fingers together. “Just think about the looks on their faces when you turn up and start drinking their free alcohol and owning this party.” 

Draco couldn’t deny it, the prospect was tempting. Especially when he imaged Weasley going red enough with anger that it matched his hair, and Potter looking so shocked that he managed to look more gormless than usual. 

“Alright, fine. But I’m not staying for too long.” Draco pushed past her, ignoring the look of triumph on her face as he walked up the steps to change. 

\--------

Pansy had been right; the reactions of the other students when they turned up to the party was truly something. Draco had walked into the room first, with Pansy and Blaise following close behind him, and by the time that everyone had properly noticed their entrance, they were already by the table pouring themselves drinks. 

Draco caught sight of Potter and his friends stood on the other side of the room and he sipped his drink with immense satisfaction as he watched Potter’s jaw drop and his grip on his cup tighten as he stared back at Draco. Beside him, the Weasel was reddening in the face like Draco had assumed, and he didn’t much care how Granger was reacting. She was too far beneath him for him to pay much attention, but from the quick glance he gave her, she looked rather indifferent, if not a little surprised to see him. It was infuriating that he hadn't managed to get under Granger’s skin too, but he figured two out of three wasn't so bad.

A few of the other students muttered protests that were clearly intended to be loud enough for Draco to hear; “who invited the Death Eater?” “What’s he doing here?” “Careful, Ernie, he might curse us all.” He was used to it by now; people made comments whenever he passed them in the corridor and so, undeterred, he leaned languidly against the table and sipped his second drink.

“Brilliant,” Blaise clapped him on the shoulder, “I think you’ve given Weasley an aneurysm.” 

Draco smirked into his drink and finally broke his gaze away from Potter and his friends - he held their gaze for a while in an attempt to make them as uncomfortable as possible. The atmosphere of the party had changed; people were wary, a little less carefree than they were moments ago, and Draco basked in it. They were intimidated by his presence, and it had been a while since he had achieved that. It felt glorious to be back in control. 

“You should keep waving your wand around, make people think you’re about to hex them,” Pansy said, snorting with laughter.

“I might just do that,” Draco replied, having to speak a little louder since the music had been turned up - probably in some desperate attempt to rekindle the party atmosphere. 

He watched as two Ravenclaw boys worked on a silencing spell on the walls, so that teachers wouldn’t hear the party taking place. A Hufflepuff boy - he must have been only in fifth year - hurried over to the two boys, wringing his hands. “What about the Prefects? They patrol this corridor, they might check.” 

“Most of the Prefects are at this damn party, you dolt,” one of the Ravenclaws laughed, shoving the Hufflepuff back into the crowd. 

This wasn’t Draco’s kind of party, if he was being honest. He preferred his parties with more sophistication; a gathering of equals, drinking alcohol and engaging in heated debates. A Slytherin party was well-hosted and managed, and Slytherins didn’t give up their intelligence and wit whenever they touched a drop of alcohol. This party was noisy, full of music that Draco didn’t recognise (muggle music, he was sure) - people were dancing and drinking and there wasn’t much conversation to be had, especially considering you had to talk rather loudly to be heard. Group conversations were almost completely off the table, and since Draco wasn’t one for mindless dancing and drinking, he didn’t really have much to do. 

Thankfully, most of the guests here were Slytherins, and so some semblance of Slytherin parties remained - in the corner, a collection of his house were talking animatedly about something and so Draco headed over to them, leaving Pansy and Blaise by the drinks table. 

“The Ministry is just trying to reform itself, I assume,” one of the Slytherin boys was halfway through saying, “of course, they don’t want to be associated with Pureblood ideology in case they’re accused of supporting the Dark Lord. It’s a very odd time in politics.”

“It’s hardly a democracy if anyone in favour of Pureblood ideals is shot down just because of what You-Know-Who and his followers did,” a sixth year Slytherin girl took a long sip of her drink, talking loudly over the music.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Draco asked, leaning on the wall to join them. They weren’t as unwelcoming as the rest of the party, and those that didn’t express their support for Draco to join them just stayed quiet, looking a little nervous if anything, especially since the tail end of the conversation had been about the Dark Lord and his followers - one of whom happened to have just joined their conversation. Draco brushed it off though, and started up a new topic of debate, one that carefully avoided any mention of the Dark Lord. 

And so Draco lost himself in the political debate that was taking place, thankful to be amongst people of his own house in an environment like this. Slytherin house was reacting very typically to Draco’s new unpopular status; on one hand, they weren’t shunning him like an outsider and blaming him for the crimes he had committed, but they were less enthusiastic about his presence, and avoided him when possible. Slytherins rarely engaged in anything that would bring down their own reputation, and since Draco brought with him an awful social status, most Slytherins avoided befriending him, and his popularity amongst them had vanished rapidly. He was glad, really, he had half expected them to join in on the mockery and ridicule, since Slytherins usually loved to tear down lesser students. He figured that it was probably to do with his family; out of all the houses, Slytherin was the one that most understood the extent of Lucius Malfoy’s power, and even if the Malfoy name had been dragged through the mud, he knew at least some of its influence remained.

It was over an hour later that Draco finally rejoined Pansy and Blaise, and he was starting to feel the effect of the alcohol by now. Pansy was dancing with Daphne, and Blaise was watching the crowd carefully, as if he was trying to single out someone to advance on. Draco laughed, leaning beside Blaise on the table. “Are you looking for someone to fuck?”

“Yes,” Blaise said, smirking, “you should do the same.” 

“Mm, yes, I’ll put out an announcement for anyone with a self-destructive tendency who wants to bed a loathed Death Eater,” Draco laughed, finishing another drink and pouring another. 

“Ex-Death Eater,” Blaise corrected him and Draco rolled his eyes. Same difference. 

“Has anyone caught your attention yet?” Draco followed Blaise’s line of sight; he was looking at a group of Ravenclaws. “I thought you might be holding out for the Weasley girl.” 

Blaise crinkled his nose in disgust and shoved Draco away. “Are you ever going to stop bringing that up? I wouldn’t touch a blood traitor like her -”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Draco said with a smile, thankful that the alcohol was lifting his spirits somewhat. “Besides, you’d have to fight Potter for her.”

“I’m not sure that’s true anymore.”

“Oh, really? Excellent. I hope he’s miserable.” Draco grinned. News of anything that could bring Harry Potter misery often made him happy, especially if it was something he could use as ammunition against him. Then, he blinked, suddenly remembering that he and Potter weren’t supposed to be bothering one another anymore. Oh, well, he figured he could start making exceptions.

“It looks like it’s him that’s not interested in her though,” Blaise told him, gesturing to Potter and his friends, “she keeps trying to dance with him - he’s not interested.”

“Ah. I can’t say I blame him. She’s a Weasley, after all.” Draco took a long swig of his drink and set it down onto the table. 

“She's the prettiest out of the lot of them, though,” Blaise shrugged, and Draco smirked again. “Don't start. I don't know what's worse though, a Weasley, or Potter.”

Draco snorted. “That Ravenclaw girl, uh -” he wracked his brain, “- Mandy. She keeps looking at you.” 

Blaise contemplated that.

“Or do you fancy cock tonight?” Draco asked, amused.

“No. Maybe. I don't know,” Blaise sighed. “Your life must be simpler than mine; what's it like to only be into one gender?” 

“Oh, yes, it's fantastic,” Draco replied sarcastically, “I fuck all the time, haven't you noticed?” 

Draco turned his attention to a group of fifth-year Hufflepuff boys stalking away from the drinks table, giving him contemptuous glares as they passed. With an amused smirk on his lips, Draco stared back, determined to stare them down. To his immense satisfaction, they averted their gaze, and whispered amongst themselves. 

“Alright, if it gets to 1am, and I haven't found anything better,” Blaise’s voice brought Draco’s attention back to him, “I might get with Mandy. She's not so bad, and I’ll be drunk anyway.”

“And people say romance is dead,” Draco drawled. 

“Please.  _ Romance _ ,” Blaise snorted in disgust and Draco thought it an appropriate response to the word in question. “Romance is for Hufflepuffs.”

“And Gryffindors,” Pansy chimed in, walking over and catching the tail end of the conversation. “What’d I miss?”

“Blaise wants to fuck Weasley again,” Draco said before Blaise could fill her in on anything. 

“Oh, God,” Pansy looked a little horrified, but it was somewhat of a running joke amongst the Eighth Years, so she didn't seem too shocked. “Also, I heard some Hufflepuff boys were planning to hex you earlier, Draco, so be careful.” 

“Good. Let them,” Draco turned to her. “I could do with a good duel.” 

“Stop it,” Pansy laughed, “you’ll get expelled.”

“And that would just be the end of me, wouldn’t it?” Draco snorted. “You know how much I adore this school.”

“Do you want to dance?” Pansy offered her hand and Draco raised his eyebrow at her. He wondered if he had accidentally drank some Polyjuice Potion, and Pansy had mistaken him for someone else.

“I don’t dance, Parkinson.”

“You can’t reconsider just this once,  _ Malfoy?”  _ She said a little flirtatiously, wiggling her fingers, and Draco knew that she must be drunk if she was hitting on him again. 

“This is a muggle song,” Blaise interrupted, finally tearing his eyes away from the crowd. “Why do you want to dance to this, Pansy? You secretly a Mudblood?”

Draco was suddenly hit with memories - a cold, high voice; terrified faces and pleas of innocents; the word ‘mudblood’ thrown around in ridicule moments before… flashes of green light, laughter - Draco shivered and decided suddenly that he was not drunk enough. 

“How do you know it’s a muggle song, Blaise?” Pansy said teasingly, and Blaise pushed her away a little. “You can dance with me instead.”

“Fantastic,” Blaise drawled sarcastically. “Your second choice, am I? Draco Malfoy’s sloppy seconds - I can’t wait.” 

“Fuck you.” It was the last thing he heard either of them say before they disappeared into the crowd, hand in hand, and Draco distantly figured that his two best friends would be fucking before the morning. It hardly mattered though; Draco and Pansy had fooled around before, and even he and Blaise had engaged in messy make out sessions when they were drunk - as far as Slytherins were concerned, relationships and sex did not necessarily coincide. 

Picking up his drink again, Draco moved to the corner of the room, to stand by some odd black boxes that seemed to emit sound in the same way that gramophones did. He figured it was likely to be some kind of muggle technology since they were always brought to parties, and he had heard some Ravenclaw students discussing the discovery of a method that enabled them to use muggle contraptions without the magical atmosphere interfering. 

He raised his drink to his lips but before he could drink anything, he lowered it again, blinking in confusion. Across the room, Harry Potter was in a rather intense discussion with a boy that Draco did not recognise. They were stood far too close to one another for it to be a conversation between acquaintances, and the languid but clearly intentional way that the boy was leaning on the wall, dipping his head close to Potter’s to speak to him, gave Draco the clear impression that he was  _ flirting  _ with Potter. And instead of stepping away and laughing, defending his clearly obvious heterosexuality, Potter wasn’t moving - in fact, he seemed to be enjoying the attention. 

Of course, that was it, Draco realised with a breath of relief. He had almost come to the bizarre conclusion that Potter could fly for his Quidditch team, but now he realised it was more likely that Potter, drunk and relaxed, was probably just letting his fan club fawn over him like the self-centred fame whore that he was. 

A weird sickly feeling in his gut, Draco tore his eyes away from Potter and his drooling fanboy, and focused his attention on Blaise and Pansy dancing together, even closer to one another than the previous duo he had been watching. They were both clearly drunk; they were moving out of time with them music, and the way they looked at each other was hazy and unfocused. But even with that knowledge, when Blaise dipped his head to kiss along Pansy’s neck, Draco felt a weird jolt of something in his chest. With a surge of disgust, he released he was feeling strangely  _ lonely,  _ and he retreated to the drinks table again to distract himself.

\------

_ I’m drunk,  _ Harry thought for the twelfth time as he laughed at something Tommy Carmichael was saying. The boy was leaning in to tell a particularly funny Quidditch story, and Harry’s vision was so blurry that he had to readjust his glasses to make sure he hadn’t lost them. His view of Tommy was fuzzy, and he could only just make out the boy’s freckles and hazel eyes. He could smell him though; alcohol on his breath and aftershave masculine enough to remind Harry that it was not sweet, flowery-scented Ginny that was flirting with him. 

_ Flirting.  _

A boy was flirting with Harry, and Harry wasn’t stopping him. 

“I like this song,” Harry said pathetically; he had lost track of what Tommy was saying, and could only offer this as a response. 

“Do you want to dance?” Tommy asked, leaning in closer than was necessary, even despite the loud music. 

“No!” Harry laughed as if this was ridiculous. “I don’t dance with  _ boys.” _

Tommy crinkled his nose. “What?”

“ _You_ dance with boys.” Harry said suddenly, blinking at him. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Harry echoed, staring at Tommy ridiculously. The sober part of his brain told him he was acting rather like an idiot, and that he ought to sort himself out. “Where are Romione and - fuck,” he descended into laughter again, “where are Ron and Hermione?”

“They went to bed an hour ago or something,” Tommy told him, and Harry could just about make out that the look he was being given was puzzled, but affectionate nonetheless. 

“Oh… They must have been tired,” Harry said stupidly.

“No, I think -” Tommy laughed. “I think they were leaving to have sex, Harry.”

Warmth spread through Harry at the way ‘sex’ sounded on Tommy’s lips, and Harry wanted him to say it again. He wondered if he was blushing, and reached a hand up to feel his own cheek. It was warm. “I should, er, get us some more drinks.”

“Mm,” Tommy drew out his wand and pointed it at Harry’s empty cup. “ _ Aguamenti _ . Drink some water, Harry.” 

He lead Harry to a sofa that had clearly been conjured messily - because it wasn’t quite solid to look at, it was a little transparent - but it worked perfectly well as Harry sat down on it, Tommy sitting beside him. 

“You must think I’m so -” Harry laughed. “Harry Potter can battle… Voldemort and… Basilisks... but he can’t handle his alcohol.” 

“I don’t care about all of that, you know,” Tommy told him, his words only a little slurred, but Harry knew he was drunk too.

“What?”

“All of the hero stuff.” 

“Oh. Right.”

“I mean, it’s not why I-” 

“Harry!” Ginny danced over to their sofa, holding out her hand with a smile. “Do you want to dance?”

Harry looked at her freckled, slender fingers, at the bracelets glimmering around her wrist and then looked up at her. She looked beautiful, with some of her hair pinned back and the rest cascading around her naturally pretty face. It was not the first time that night she had asked him to dance, but it was the first time he had paid much attention to her, and he wondered - in the sober part of his brain - why he was sitting with Tommy Carmichael instead of dancing with her. 

“He’s a bit drunk,” Tommy said to her and she shot him a look that clearly questioned why he was interrupting. 

“Harry can answer for himself.” she said bluntly, moving a little on the spot in time with the music. “Harry?”

“Yeah, maybe later, Ginny.” 

“Ginny, you wanna dance?” Dean appeared beside her, and with an almost defiant look at Harry, she took his hand and vanished into the crowd. 

Harry sat sipping his water for the next twenty minutes or so, and the sobering effect it had on him was almost instant. He was still drunk, but not enough so that his vision was fuzzy, or his words mixed together. With a small semblance of clarity, he turned back to Tommy and gave him an apologetic grin.

“Sorry, go on, what were you saying?” 

“I was saying that you are a very good Seeker.” 

“You -” Harry stared at him for a moment, before realisation dawned on him. “You’re the Hufflepuff Seeker!” 

“That’s right,” Tommy said with a laugh. “You didn’t realise? Wow, I must be true competition.” 

“I - sorry.” He grinned sheepishly, finishing his water. “I don’t really pay attention to who the other Seeker is. Just… what they’re doing, and if I can beat them.”

“Please, you can beat any Seeker. The only Seeker that’s ever came close is Malfoy.” 

“And Cedric. He beat me once.” There was a funny feeling in his chest as he said the name, and it was only the hazy wall of intoxication that blocked the barricade of memories threatening to push to the surface.

“You fell off your broom.” Tommy laughed, and it was a soft, warm sound. “You’re the best Quidditch player in the school.” 

“I - I guess -” Harry conceded, and he was suddenly aware of how close Tommy was, and he was getting closer.

_ He’s going to kiss me.  _ Harry blinked, unable to look away. 

“Harry,” Tommy breathed, reaching up to touch Harry’s jawline. Before his fingers could make contact with Harry’s skin, or his lips meet Harry’s, Harry was moving back and holding up his cup. 

“I - I should go and get those drinks,” He took Tommy’s cup and got to his feet, trying to ignore the disappointed look on Tommy’s face. “I won’t be long.” 

He weaved his way through the crowd, almost bumping into Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson - although, they were far too distracted by one another’s lips to notice - and he passed Ginny and Dean dancing together. There was a funny jolt of jealousy in his stomach at the sight of Dean brushing her hair out of her face, but it wasn’t  _ ‘I want to be dancing with her’,  _ Harry realised, it was more like an odd feeling that he was losing something that used to be so important to him. 

The drinks table was almost empty by now, and Harry poured firewhiskey into both of the cups, accidentally sloshing some of it onto the already soaked table. On the other side of the table, Anthony Goldstein had pressed one of the Patil sisters into the wall, and the two were engaging in a rather heated make out session. Embarrassed, Harry averted his eyes, and moved to try and find something to dilute his cups of firewhiskey.

As he backed up, he felt his elbow connect with something solid behind him, and heard the unmistakable voice of Draco Malfoy exclaiming;  _ “watch where you’re going, you -” _

Harry turned to look at Malfoy and recognition dawned on his features. “ _ Potter.  _ I should have known it would be you, you fucking-” Malfoy seemed extremely angry, and Harry noticed the wet, blue stain on his white shirt. He had knocked Malfoy’s drink onto him. 

“Shit,” Harry exclaimed, “I didn’t mean to-” 

He turned to grab a handful of napkins and held them out to Malfoy; he figured that trying to clean up the stain himself would only infuriate Malfoy more. Malfoy took the napkins reluctantly, and reached down to dab at his shirt before he frowned in confusion.

“Blue? Why is it-” he looked down into his own cup. “Firewhiskey is red, why -” 

A Ravenclaw girl nearby seemed to overhear this and she let out a small noise, hurrying over. “You’ve been spiked, you’ve -” She pulled out her wand and muttered some spell that Harry didn’t recognise, and within seconds, the stain had gone. “Holy shit, I - I’ve heard about - that’s a rather lethal potion you were spiked with… people used to use it to spike people all the time a long time ago, but - people gave up on it because it turns firewhiskey blue and butterbeer green if it’s spilt but it’s not so obvious in the dark and one sip is enough to hospitalise you instantly… but even so, well, it was rather easy to detect so bad wizards moved onto the Raken’s Potion and- ” 

“I didn’t ask for a history lesson, Hopkins,” Malfoy said roughly, cutting her off, and Hopkins looked embarrassed that she had talked so much.

“Anyway. Thank God you spilt your drink before you could drink any of it, you could have died,” she said in a hushed voice, staring at him with wide eyes. 

Malfoy looked furious, and Harry couldn’t work out in his drunken state if it was because someone had tried to kill him again - so soon after last time - or if it was because, yet again, Harry had somehow managed to save Malfoy’s life.

“What is wrong with you?!” Malfoy spat, throwing his cup onto the table. “You can’t do anything wrong, can you? Can’t even bump into someone at a party without saving their fucking life - you just can’t stop yourself. Oh, Wonderful Hero Potter saves the day again without even doing a damn fucking thing!” 

Harry blinked, staring at Malfoy as he raged, before he turned and stormed out of the party, leaving Harry to stare at the spot where Malfoy had once stood. He was rather unsure what had just happened, but he figured that the drama was perhaps his cue to leave the party too. He walked up to Tommy, handing him one of the cups, and wasn’t surprised to notice that eyes were now following him across the room.

“What just happened?” Tommy asked, glancing at the door that Malfoy had recently slammed shut behind him.

“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly, “but I think I’m going to go to bed.” 

“Oh.”

“Sorry, er, it’s been a weird day, and I have a Quidditch match tomor-” he checked his watch, “-today.”

“Oh, yeah, I understand.” Tommy nodded, setting down his drink. “I can walk you back to Gryffindor Tower. If - if you want.”

“Okay.” Harry smiled, and followed Tommy out of the room.

Eighth Years were permitted to be out of bed during the night if they wished, but Filch didn’t really pay much attention to that particular rule. He still gave students hell for being in the corridors, no matter their age, and so the two of them had to make their way carefully through the castle. He would have used the Marauder’s Map if he had been alone, but he did not trust Tommy enough to show him - even in his drunken state. 

“I’ll be cheering you on during the game tomorrow,” Tommy told him, their shoulders brushing together as they walked. 

Harry, who was struggling to keep his steps straight as he walked, merely grinned in response; all his focus was on not falling over as he walked. “Tom - Tommy, I’m so drunk.” He laughed, and Tommy laughed too.

“Yeah, me too… I’m starving.”

“Your Common Room is by the kitchens, you’re so lucky…” 

Tommy didn’t reply to this, and Harry was aware that they were making small talk. Silly really, they had talked for rather a long time during the party, but now that they were alone, without the heavy music and with only their echoing steps for company, Harry couldn’t think of anything to say.

After a few moments of silence, in which Harry contemplated why exactly he was spending time with Tommy Carmichael after what Ron had told him, they turned a corner and Harry noticed Filch pacing the corridor. He reacted quickly, moving to push Tommy back into the corridor, and he shoved the other boy into the wall behind a suit of armour, covering Tommy’s body with his own. 

“Filch,” Harry whispered, his lips against Tommy’s ear, “don’t move until he passes us.”

Tommy groaned softly, shifting under Harry’s weight, and he let out a breathy laugh  - it tickled Harry’s ear. “This is so cliche.” 

“Shh.”

Harry could feel Tommy’s breath on his skin as he watched Filch pass them, and it was distracting him rather a lot. His skin was getting a little hotter, and Tommy was definitely right - this was very cliche. The only conclusion that Harry could come to was that he was a little predisposed to dabbling with his own gender whenever he was somewhat intoxicated. First, it had been the flying, and this time it was the alcohol. Yes, that was definitely it. 

He turned back to Tommy, ready to move away from him now that Filch had passed, but Tommy’s hand was on Harry’s hips, and his eyes were darker than usual. 

_ He is going to kiss me.  _ Harry thought for the second time that night.  _ No. I am going to kiss him.  _

And he did. Their lips met, and it wasn’t sweet or delicate like his first kiss with Cho, or Ginny, instead it was rough and hurried and messy. Tommy tasted like alcohol, and Harry’s head was spinning, hardly aware of what he was doing. It was instinctive; two drunk teenagers trying to feed their insatiable lust, and Harry was dully aware that he was half-hard in his jeans. He reached up to tangle his fingers in hair, and when his fingers met hair that was short and messy, he jumped back as if he had been electrocuted. 

_ A boy. _

Harry had kissed a boy. 

“What is it?” Tommy asked breathlessly, his lips wet and shining. His breathing was as heavy and laboured as Harry’s, and he stared at Tommy, wide eyed with shock.

“I -” Harry’s throat was dry. It took him a few moments before he could speak again. “Filch is wandering the corridors. There’s no point both of us getting in trouble. I’ll make my own way back to Gryffindor Tower. Goodnight, Tommy.” 

He sped away, not giving Tommy the chance to reply. 

As he turned the corner, he heard Tommy call out ‘Harry, wait!’ but he did not slow down his steps until he had reached the entrance to the Common Room, passed the portrait (who had complained immensely about being woken up), and collapsed into the armchair in front of the fire. 

After a moment, he slowly made his way up the steps to the dormitory - only Neville was asleep inside; everyone else was at the party (except Ron, who Harry assumed was away with Hermione somewhere) - and climbed into bed. There was a frustrated itch beneath his skin that he could not get rid of, but he resolutely ignored it, turning to look at Ron’s empty bed, his vision spinning a little from the alcohol.

Ron and Hermione were Harry’s best friends, and he could talk to them about anything - his parents, Voldemort, Dumbledore, the aching feeling he still got when he thought of Sirius, his first kiss with Cho, his silly theories that his dead father had cast that Patronus, his not-so-silly theories that certain classmates of his had been Death Eaters... Anything - he could talk to them about anything, and they would listen. And he was sure that if he told them about this, they would listen to that too, but he knew that they would have no template on how Harry could deal with the fact that he did not mind kissing boys as well as girls. So, with a weird hollowness from knowing that there was finally something he could not speak to Ron and Hermione about, he closed his eyes and forced himself into a dreamless sleep.    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally lmao sorry for the Harry/OMC ok Give Me A Break


End file.
